


Little Flame

by Arlyshawk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, F/M, Spoilers, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6823834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlyshawk/pseuds/Arlyshawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living without a left hand can inspire some new feelings</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commandershakarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commandershakarian/gifts).



> Warning(s): Trespasser DLC spoilers, amputation, and the mention of skinning a certain Dread Wolf.   
> Anabelle Hawke belongs to commandershakarian

His body is on fire.

Finnegan's head swims with the sort of haziness he's only experienced once before, when he was younger and banged his head on the side doorway to the Starkhaven Chantry. He fears opening his eyes will cause him to vomit since his head is hot, like he's been in a kiln. And it makes him sick to his stomach. He furrows his brow with his eyes shut, there's excruciating pain behind his eyes, burning like a flare and feels like needles. The light from the large balcony windows bears down on his eyes and the moment he tries to throw his arm over his eyes, there's nothing.

He tries again, thinking his body is numb, it's decided to not move before when he's banged his head after all. Bu then there's nothing, no movement. His right arm moves instead, not his left. That makes him open his eyes and look down at his left arm.. Or what remains of it. It's been cleanly cut off at the elbow, the skin is folded over the stump of his arm, stitched neatly with catgut. The skin puckers and is inflamed, but he feels no pain.

His stomach falls through to his feet.

Finnegan sits up, spine crackling and the muscles stretch awkwardly; he doesn't know how long he's been asleep, but his body says that it's easily been a week. He stretches, rolling his shoulders. Things pop and crackle, but it's entirely awkward not having a left arm to stretch with anymore.

The door to his room opens and slams, he can hear Anabelle's footsteps on the  wooden stairs, strangely heavy. He spies her fiery hair first, her cropped hair alive with shades of gold and bright, burnished copper. Her pretty face contorts into a look that he's seen only a handful of times, the true look of rage that can be seen in the way a snarl curls up the edges of her mouth and crinkles her nose.

Her umber eyes land on him as she rounds the balustrade and the look falters some. Finnegan knows her, knows that her anger won't truly dissipate, but it will simmer down. Her fingers are in tight fists at her side, the skin paling across her knuckles.

"Ana, _mo gráidh,"_ Finn feels his voice crack in his throat, hoarse. He attempts to extend his left hand out to her, but stalls. He corrects himself and uses his right instead. She takes his hand, her fingers warm against his palm. She sits on the edge of the bed, turning her attention to his left side.

"Who did this to you?" Anabelle asks, voice low and dangerous like the calm before the din of a storm. Her dark brown eyes analyze his arm and the massive shock of a scar that runs from the top of his peck to his hip from the Anchor's discharge.

"It'd be more of a question of a what," He says with a lopsided smile that twists into agony when she touches the puckered skin. The Anchor had blasted him off his feet so many times… She glares up at him, "The Anchor. All I remember is that damnable thing knocking me on my arse."

"Varric says you were bleeding so bad that you could've died," The fear of the situation has Ana looking at him with a mixture of anger and horror. "You don't remember that _thing_ nearly killing you?"

Finnegan shakes his head, "No, 'fraid I don't. Minds can blot out information it deems too traumatic, after all."

Her jaw tenses, "You're kidding me."

"I only remember the Anchor and.. Solas."

"Solas did this to you?!"

"Ana…"

She digs her nails into his leg, the pain dull compared to one that's ebbing across his body. "Don't start - I knew he was nothing but trouble."

"Turns out he was the one that caused the Anchor to be on my hand in the first place," Anabelle grows rigid. "He's an Elven God, Ana, and he was bloody foolish enough to give away his orb with the hopes of.. _unlocking_ it somehow. And I know what you're going to say-."

"I'll kill him," There's fire in her eyes, bright and alive like embers. "I'll fucking kill him with my own hands, Finn."

He loops his arm around her and keeps her close to his chest despite her pushing away. She's a flame, nothing that can be captured despite his best efforts. But flames can be tempered and he manages to get her to relax against him.

 He kisses her hair, "One thing at a time. I need time to heal, _mo gráidh_ , then we can go hunting for him."


End file.
